Wing over wing, I skim
gray sea choked with rain,
passing slick orca and
rough-throated seals.
Winter flowers at my back;
purple weeds grow on
bleached rocks and drink salt.
Tasting brine and mountain air
I dive,
bursting into foam and fin.
With a new body, I grasp silt,
eyes opening to dark.
A sea turtle languishes.
Reaching for its carapace, I find it
slick with algae old as salt.
It opens its eye and moves away.
It’s cold down here.
Shocks of rough scale,
vinegar and ice, sift
over cheek and tongue.
Hair splaying its fire,
woven with kelp,
I wait. Floating, but never resting.
I suck cold flesh
from dead shells and
learn the language of depth,
how to breathe in brine,
to follow the current at
moon-tide.
A whale is a ship’s helm
in the passing dark.
I imagine Jonah inside its belly,
all of that roaring flesh
wrapping him in womb-dark
while he waits.
Time feels different in the waiting.
A spear of sunlight dapples
my webbed hand, grown used
to the mire.
Sun reaches me even here, where
the only light is from trout skins—
I’ve grown used to that, too.
Bubbles pearling from my mouth,
I rise,
already gasping,
drinking clean air—
unfolding into wings again
with trembling feather.